Watch Me Burn
by WhatsABriard
Summary: Simon Bricker ignited a powderkeg when he snuck into Cora's room that night. Like a phoenix, the Crawley marriage eventually rises from the flames stronger than ever. However, at first, it has to burn like hell. Angst. Sex. ANGST.
1. Cora

"Golly, what a night!" She'd said, and Robert's face was blank. The cornflower of his eyes shifted to a dull, colorless gray against crimson cheeks. He puffed labored breaths and, for a moment, it looked as though he would say something more. But then he merely told her he would sleep in his dressing room. The fight drained out of him and his broad, proud shoulders slumped in defeat even as he straightened his coat, tugging at the ends fitfully before disappearing.

The hollow click of the connecting door was sharp in the silence of her room and the palms she laid over her eyes did not stem her tears.

Sleep would not come. The bed is too large without his weight beside her. The air too still without his occasional snores and grunts.

Straining her ears she is certain she can hear the creak of his dressing room mattress but there is no light filtering beneath the closed door.

The hearth fire burns low and turns to ash, chill creeping from the shadows to blanket the room.

Sleep would not come.

* * *

She feels insubstantial roaming the halls in the early hours of morning, adrift with no true destination in mind. Pale moonlight filters through the tall leaded glass windows and she avoids the silvery spills in her path, following the darkened shadows instead. She's been following shadows for a while now - why bother change her course now?

Minutes into her aimless roaming she realizes the very real possibility of running into Bricker in the empty halls and a dark pleasure suffuses her. She'd like to pop him in the nose as Robert had; smack him senseless. How could he - how could he dare? But her anger is misdirected and the pressing thought that sends her roving in the night is less charitable.

 _How could I dare?_

* * *

She's never really developed a taste for whiskey. It is bitter, not like the new cocktails that were becoming all the rage, and it burns a trail down her throat to light a fire in her belly.

She often complained it made her logy and sleepy.

Robert told her it made her loose and sexy.

Regardless, she longs for blessed emptiness of thought and makes a quick turn for the library.. She aches to forget the earlier hours, to erase Simon Bricker's sadly hopeful face and Robert's destroyed one.

A few ounces of escape to scorch the recesses of her mind.

So intent on reaching her destination, it isn't until she holds the heavy crystal glass in her fingertips that she realizes she isn't alone.

He sits in his desk chair, cloaked in shadows. Only his eyes glint in the weak moonlight and when he clears his throat she nearly drops her drink.

"It's you." She says, not sure if she feels relief, rage or fear. Before she decides, she downs her drink in one swallow and her face twists in disgust.

"What do you hope to accomplish with this?" He asks slowly, and in the slur of his words she can tell he has indulged for quite a while. The admonishment is on the tip of her tongue and she swallows it back and chooses to answer him glibly instead.

"Same as you, I suppose."

The sneer is evident in his voice. "Oh, you've a wish to forget your wife's unfaithfulness as well? What a coincidence."

"I seek to forget that my husband is currently behaving like a horse's ass, which I suppose amounts to the same thing." Liquid courage, latent irritation or simple resignation has her immediately poised for battle. It has been years since she last felt backed into a corner and forced to fight her way out.

And her adversary has never, ever been Robert.

Cora contemplates taking her drink back to her room but she believes his earlier retreat to be rooted in cowardice and she isn't about to give in so easily.

Besides there are flames licking low in her belly and all the things she hasn't said to him for weeks and months are rising to the surface, toxic bubbles of repressed emotion.

He holds his glass lazily and watches her with a critical eye. His silent judgement grates and she is tempted to throw the whiskey in his face. Perhaps she isn't smart enough for Simon Bricker to appreciate. Perhaps he was just after her for one thing. But at least he listened when she spoke. At least he cared to hear her opinion. And if he thought it was a stupid opinion, he kept that information to himself.

"You're thinking of him right now!" Robert accuses and she doesn't deny it. How could she deny it?

"Of him. And of you. Rolling together like children in our bedroom. Waking Edith and tempting God knows what scandal."

" _I_ was tempting scandal?" Hollow laughter escapes his twisted lips. "I. Was tempting scandal. Me?"

She pours another drink and ignores him. The chair he's in creaks as he shifts but she keeps her back to him. She cannot look at him; cannot witness the wreckage she has created.

"MY WIFE. MY CORA. MY WIFE." He barks sharply and she jumps and turns to look at him. He is lost somewhere in his own mind and it takes a few seconds for his eyes to focus on hers.

"Yes, I'm YOUR WIFE. After more than thirty years I think I'm aware."

"Then how could you flirt with him? How could you flatter him? How could you invite him here? How could you let him into our room?"

"Because!" Her voice cracks on the jagged edge of her grief, punctuated by the slam of her glass against the oak. "Because you weren't here. You couldn't be bothered to look at me. Because you've made it abundantly clear that my opinion means nothing to you and that I am too daft to hold a conversation with. Because I'm not ready to be the Dowager quite yet and I longed for a friend. You, my best friend, could not be bothered! I needed you to hear me and you couldn't be bothered."

"So that's a reason to let him fuck you?"

She feels his words like a physical blow, the vile curse well-aimed for maximum damage. Her chest crumples a bit at the force of his vehemence. She hadn't thought, hadn't really thought, that he actually believed her to be unfaithful. She believed his wounded ego to be at the base of his behavior. Tears held at bay with the heat of the whiskey begin to fill her throat and, at once, she is last of her belligerence slips away, the fire in her belly burning low and turning to ash.

"I'm sorry."

She is prepared to retreat to her room. To give him the space he so obviously desires. To escape. But his fingers cord around her wrists tightly and when she turns their noses bump. His nearness is unsettling and she squeaks in weak protest as he backs her into his writing desk.

She cannot focus on his eyes. Their noses thump again and he's too close but she can smell the whiskey on his breath and the heat of desire is unmistakable against her hip. The noises he makes against her throat are, at first, mere animal vocalizations until she begins to follow their cadence.

"Mine, mine, mine, mine, mine." He brands her skin with declarations and she lets him.

* * *

He is looming over her, a dark angel with a fierce face, lips pressed between her breasts and searing through the cotton nightdress. His hands grope at her thighs and she is balanced precariously on the edge of the writing desk, the corner pressed uncomfortably into the base of her spine. Carelessly he kicks the chair away and it tumbles sideways, impossibly loud in the tomb-like library. The sound does not break his concentration and he continues to paw at her resolutely, fingers hot and hard and searching.

At the apex of her thighs he pushes against her core and she winces. She's not ready, not even a little bit.

His grunt is emotionless but he suddenly drops in front of her. She hasn't the time to gather her thoughts before his lips are pressed to the folds of her sex and his insistent, silken tongue is slipping against her. Her knees buckle and her hands grope at his shoulders, searching for balance and purchase, attempting to make sense of her current position.

"I...yes. Ro-ro-ro-um.." She has lost her words to the rhythm of his tongue. His thumbs press harder into her skin and spread her thighs. His face is buried against her and she cannot stop her hips from jerking against him. The pleasure is hot and hard and tinged with hurt. She cannot see his face, cannot look into his eyes for forgiveness or comfort. He simply draws pleasure from her with masterful and merciless stroking and he pushes impossibly closer. She is thoughtless as she cups his head, grinding herself fiercely against his lips, angry desire flooding between them, warm and sticky and complicated.

"There," He says against her, satisfied, and she feels the word through her core to the top of her head. She is momentarily weightless, suspended in pleasant agony as he lets her go and stands once more. His palms against her stomach turn her fully and she braces herself on the flat of the desk. The coolness of the room creeps up as he pulls her nightdress to her hips and positions himself behind her. His feet slip between hers and brush her legs wider and then he is there at her entrance, poised and waiting.

He hesitates. The fists twisted in the hem of her nightgown go slack and her chest tightens in panic.

"Don't stop." She growls, even as a tear tracks over her cheek. She pushes back against him, desperate for a connection, any connection. He needs no further encouragement and he slides inside her in a single stroke.

"Mine." He growls against the nape of her neck before biting, harder than usual and sure to leave a mark. "Mine."

"Yes." She answers, the warm skin of his thighs slapping against her. His corporeal presence so solid at her back and yet his heart so distant.

"Mine."

"Yes."

His.

* * *

(1/3)


	2. Robert

_I think this story may end up being rather different from what everyone was expecting. I'm not a very good linear storyteller - I like to create mood. So here is some more mood in the form of our beloved Donk Crawley._

* * *

"Golly, what a night!" She'd said, and Robert felt nothing. Empty. Defeated. His knuckles throbbed instantly, regret and shame seizing his muscles as he clutched the arms of the chair and forced oxygen into his lungs.

He was sure his heart had stopped beating.

He couldn't look at her. Couldn't comfort her. Couldn't be near her.

"I'll sleep in my dressing room." He said, and he fled to the quiet cold of the room next door.

The hollow click of the connecting door was final and he pulled the blanket over his head to drown out the quiet sound of her tears.

* * *

He has no idea how many hours he spends alone in his dressing room bed, only that his thoughts drove him out in search of a drink some time before dawn. He spends too much time examining his culpability in the evening's drama and he wants to be able to blame only Cora. Cora, for flirting with that man. Cora, for inviting him in the house. Cora, for seeking companionship with someone who wasn't him. It is long past midnight when he gets up in search of a drink. He thinks he will get well and truly plastered and then take out that blasted painting and set fire to it in the front drive.

He will save them all from Simon Bricker and he doesn't matter what he has to burn down to do it.

His plan is waylaid, however, when the whiskey slides down to easily. When the pleasant warmth makes his muscles languid and his fervor to remove the Della Francesca) and thereby Bricker) from his life completely cools to a simmer.

Then Cora appears, and the fervor returns. He is agitated and his skin feels aflame when she enters the library and makes a bee-line for the whiskey herself. He wonders, uncharitably, if she is seeking liquid courage before returning to the arms of her paramour. But then he takes in the defeated set of her shoulders, the shadows beneath her beautiful eyes, and he knows.

He knows.

 _How can she be so calm_ , he thinks. Her pale hands are steady as she pours herself a finger of whiskey, something that would surprise him if he was even remotely sober. But instead he focuses on the smoothness of her movements and the way she doesn't even sway as she throws back her drink. He follows the shallow curves left my her nightdress, from petite toes peeking beneath the hem to the tumble of darkness over her shoulder. Words twisted in his throat and he threw back another drink before speaking, his chest weighted down with conflicting emotions.

It smothers him sometimes, the pride of her. That she is his, that she chose him. The sweet jasmine of her perfume is an ether and at its delicate scent he loses some piece of himself to her. He is lost to her and, he fears, she is lost to him. Forever.

"It's you." She speaks first, resigned.

"What do you hope to accomplish with this?" He means the whiskey, but there is an unintended entendre beneath his slurred words.

"Same as you, I suppose."

"Oh, you've a wish to forget your wife's unfaithfulness as well? What a coincidence." Anger is the easiest emotion to accept at the moment. It is warm and welcoming and it hazes his vision enough that he cannot see the hurt in her eyes.

"I seek to forget that my husband is currently behaving like a horse's ass, which I suppose amounts to the same thing." Her shoulders hunch protectively and he realizes they've never fought like this. Never like this. Regardless of the issues between them, they were always together. Devoted together. This wasn't disagreement, this was dissolution and it frightened him. He wants to lash out, and he wants her to feel fear too. Perhaps if they are both terrified, they won't be so lost.

"You're thinking of him right now!" Her eyes are far away and her expression is penitent. He knows he's right when she jerks slightly, and he wants to shake her. He wants to charge up the stairs with a roar and drag Simon Bricker out of their lives by his giant ears. He wants to pound him into dust and break that damned painting over his head. He wants to...

"Of him. And of you. Rolling together like children in our bedroom. Waking Edith and tempting God knows what scandal." She is speaking and his daydream of revenge is cut short.

" _I_ was tempting scandal? I. Was tempting scandal. Me?" Scandal is the least of his worries. He doesn't care what anyone - not his mother, not the county, not the papers, not his daughters, not the servants - said of it. He would fight them all, beat them back with the last of his breath, if it meant he kept his wife.

It wasn't that he believed she would do anything with that art hack. He knew her to be the most faithful and reliable woman who'd ever lived.

But she is his, dammit. And Bricker had sought to take her away.

HIS.

His wife. His Cora.

A memory, unbidden, rises through the haze. " _Mary can be such a child. She thinks that if you put a toy down it will still be sitting there when you want to play with it again."_

But these were not toys. This was his wife. HIS WIFE.

It is with a double glance that he realizes Cora is staring at him strangely.

"Yes, I'm YOUR WIFE. After more than thirty years I think I'm aware."

"Then how could you flirt with him? How could you flatter him? How could you invite him here? How could you let him into our room?"

Her glass makes a cracking sound when she slams it onto the side table.

"Because!" If she hears the high-pitch of hysteria in her voice she doesn't let it slow her down. "Because you weren't here. You couldn't be bothered to look at me. Because you've made it abundantly clear that my opinion means nothing to you and that I am too daft to hold a conversation with. Because I'm not ready to be the Dowager quite yet and I longed for a friend. You, my best friend, could not be bothered! I needed you to hear me and you couldn't be bothered."

"So that's a reason to let him fuck you."

As soon as the whiskey soaked words leave his mouth, he longs to reach out and grab them back. Her face, already pale in the shadows of the library, whitens further. He is fairly sure that if she hadn't already slammed down her drink, the crystal glass would be crossing the few feet separating them, aimed straight at his temple.

He is prepared for her anger. For her righteous indignation. He is prepared for her to call him a cad, a bastard. He aches for the fire of her temper to match his. Perhaps then they will ignite together and emerge from the ashes renewed and strengthened.

He is not prepared for blank expression, her palms up in supplication, the defeated drop of her thin shoulders..

"I'm sorry." She whispers into the darkness looming between them.

He is not prepared to forgive her.

He is not prepared to forgive himself.

* * *

He doesn't recall setting aside his drink or standing. He doesn't recall the few steps required to cross the space between them and take her in his arms. But Cora is real and stiff in his embrace and their noses bump when he clumsily turns her to face him. His hips rut relentlessly of their own accord and he clenches at her with helpless need. She is his lifeline.

She is his. He will remind them both of that fact.

He will not lose her. He cannot survive it. His lips scorch across her chilled skin and his teeth seek the reassuring thrum of her pulse in her neck.

"Mine." He groans. "Mine, mine, mine, mine, mine."

She is beatific beneath him, pale and cool and he wants to devour her. Does she not know that holds his very heart in the palm of her hands? Does she not know that he would cease to exist without her, would wither away and disappear without the force of her love holding him steady?

 _She does not_ , his traitorous mind replies. _And it is your fault_.

Renewed vigor and a need to reset their bond fills him and his mostly thoughtless seduction becomes more precise. He presses his fingers to her core and is not particularly surprised to find her warm and dry. She is stiff in his embrace and he knows exactly how to enact a thaw.

He drops to his knees before her, a supplicant at her altar and he fumbles with her nightdress before drawing it up high enough to reveal his goal. Dark curls and porcelain thighs and his mouth almost waters at the sight. He makes no preliminaries before pressing his face to her, before slipping his tongue between her folds. She is as necessary to him as air, and the first taste of her on his lips soothes the savage thing in his chest. He shifts his head, kissing her sex deeply, relieved to hear his broken name echoing from above.

"Ro-ro-ro-ummmmm.." He is even harder, trapped in his pajama pants and even more determined to possess her. He wants to leave her with only one name on her lips, in her brain, between her thighs. He pushes her legs further and presses his finger into her a little carelessly. He is rewarded with a rush of wetness and her palm cups his neck drawing him closer. He can hardly breathe as she grinds her hips against his working mouth. But if he is to die, this is the way he wants to go suckling at his wife's essence and erasing her mind of all others.

He nibbles down rather hard on the bundle of nerves and her entire body jerks.

"There." He says, satisfie. He cannot look at her right now, as much as he wants to possess her. There is something angry and painful rising once more between them, flickering and singeing and threatening to set them ablaze. If he looks at her, if he watches her sooty lashes flutter against her cheeks, he will be done and he will let her slip away.

And so he turns her away and she clumsily braces herself on the writing desk. He pushes his pants down only far enough to free his member and then bunches her nightdress at her hips. Roughly he toes her legs further apart and the heat of her draws him in.

Cora trembles beneath him. Cora trembles.

At once, his nerve wanes and he is about to let her go, shame already burning in his face. Taking her this way, without asking if she even wants it, seeking to mount her as though she is a possession and not his partner. He cannot.

"Don't," She growls, and he can hear the tears in her throat even as she presses yearningly against him. It is permission and plea in a single word, and all the encouragement he requires. Confidence restored, he shifts his hips and he is inside her.

"Mine," He ruts against her, something foreign and rough taking him over when he bites the back of her neck. It will mark her, and the thought of her porcelain skin bearing his mark sets him aflame once more.

"Yes," she whispers and rocks against him in counterpoint, reaching a hand to cover the one steadying her against her abdomen. She attempts to thread their fingers and he pulls away to hold her hips instead, slapping against her.

"Mine." He cannot control his thrusts and they are forceful, the desk rocking precariously beneath them.

"Yes."

"Mine." His forehead is against her spine when he spills inside her and her back is wet from exertion and, he is not surprised to find, his tears.

 _Yours_ , he wants to say. But doesn't.

* * *

(2/3)

 _One more part left to go and there's one party we haven't heard from yet._

 _Cora's Jasmine scent is a very unsubtle nod to Ohtobealady's "An English Summer" which is my new obsession. If you haven't read it - what are you even doing with your life?_


	3. Bricker

"It's not your maid. I waited until she'd gone."

"You must leave. Mr. Bricker, you must leave. Mr Bricker, I've asked you twice now. Will you please go?" He couldn't help but note she was even softer in her room. With the artifices of propriety stripped away, draped in lush fabrics with her hair tumbling down her back. She is softer, sweeter and he longs to hold her.

"You said yourself, who knows when I'll be back."

"Mr. Bricker-"

"Don't pretend, Cora. You know something's happened between us. You know things have changed now. I feel it and I know you do. When did someone last cherish you? When did someone even listen to you? I've seen you with your family. Ignored and passed over..." The hurt in her eyes registered briefly but he felt he was making headway. So close - so close he could reach out and tangle his fingers in her dark hair and turn her face to his.

"None of this is any reason-"

And then all hell broke lose.

* * *

HIs jaw aches. In fact, his jaw is not the only thing that aches. Simon can feel bruises rising along his arms and upper body and he knows he will be stiff come sunrise.

Such a mess. It was all such a bloody mess.

The pain is enough to keep him from sleeping, although he wasn't sure he could have done even without the solid thwap to his jaw. He had been so close and then…

Although with time to think on it, Simon came to the conclusion that he hadn't been nearly as close as he'd believed. Oh, she stood across from him deliciously stripped of her public persona. Loose and warm and inviting, he stood so near her in her private sanctuary that he could smell her scented lotion freshly rubbed into her skin.

And yet even before Lord Grantham had arrived there was a distance. She did not react the way he expected.

He runs the scene in his head over and over and, by the fifteenth time, there is little doubt. Cora never meant - didn't think -

He needs a drink. A stiff shot to ease away the tension in his muscles and erase the horrendous night.

 _Mr. Bricker, you must leave_ , she'd said. He knows now she meant it.

The house is different at night. If if was desire that lead him to Cora's door, it is now defeat and shame that keep him wandering aimlessly in search of the library.

Or the parlor. Or the billiard room. Anywhere that might house a bit of a snifter.

At long last he finds himself in the gallery and he descends the grand staircase quietly. There is no movement in the house and Simon hopes upon hope that Cora has settled enough to sleep.

Standing in the main hall, bathed in silvery moonlight, he takes a few seconds to get his bearings. The Abbey is a second home to him, now. He spent so much time here he feels he knows it and he allows himself a few seconds to breathe before he turns in what he believes to be the direction of the library.

The knob turns and he only has the door open a few inches when there is a loud crack and the sound of Cora's voice reaches his ears.

"-you weren't here. You couldn't be bothered to look at me. Because you've made it abundantly clear that my opinion means nothing to you and that I am too daft to hold a conversation with. Because I'm not ready to be the Dowager quite yet and I longed for a friend. You, my best friend, could not be bothered! I needed you to hear me and you couldn't be bothered."

Oh my dearest, he wants to say but holds his tongue. He is about to back out of the room when Lord Grantham's cold response reaches his ears.

"So that's a reason to let him fuck you."

Indignation floods him instantly and his fists ball. Simon might have been soundly beaten by the Earl the first time, but he is sure the rage that fills his veins will be enough to give him the edge now.

His face is hot, his skin prickling and his hand pushes the door just wide enough to see them across the empty room. They are a sad tableau, Lord Grantham seated lazily while Cora shimmers before him - a vision in pastels.

She stands open, her arms at her sides, vulnerable and so small in the wide space. Her face registers the same surprise that Simon feels when suddenly Lord Grantham is upon her, his large hands groping wildly at the parts of her he can reach.

The Earl kicks a chair and it tumbles with a hollow sound that echoes through the room. It does not stop him, though, and he continues to paw at his wife.

Simon feels distant as he watches, as though he isn't in his own body when Lord Grantham's lips chase down the pale slope of Cora's throat. He knows he should turn away but can't, when the older man drops to his knees and draws his wife's nightdress to her hips. Simon is afforded the merest glance of the heaven between her thighs when the older man buries his face there and Cora's own visage contorts.

I should not be here, he thinks, against his own arousal.

This is your fault.

 _Mr. Bricker, you must leave._

Instead, he watches her face. She is exactly as he had imagined, the small pearls of her teeth biting into her lips. Her lashes brush against her cheeks, eyes closed tight against the pleasure suffusing her. Even in the shadows he can tell she is flushed. Her fingers slide into the hair at the nape of her husband's neck and the rhythm of her body changes to something feral.

 _Mr. Bricker, you must leave._

He cannot. He watches in fascination as the Earl finally stands and clumsily turns his wife away from him.

There is a pause, a murmur, and Simon thinks perhaps Lord Grantham has come to his senses.

The writing desk creaks when the earl plunges into his wife and Cora's groan reaches through the haze.

Closing his eyes Simon turns away, his back to the door. He can only just hear them, the distant muffled movement of bodies and low cries.

"Mine."

"Yes."

"Mine."

"Yes."

* * *

He scrubs at his face, pinching his eyes, attempting to unsee the scene already unfolding once more before his lids.

 _Mr Bricker, you must leave_.

He has no idea how long he's been standing there, the pain in his jaw long forgotten, the low thrum of arousal heavy between his thighs. He is lost in a fantasy of his own making, even as the sounds of passion in the library diminish and fall silent.

He needs a drink now more than ever and he is sure they have gone. Probably retired to bed together.

As they should, he thinks, but doesn't believe it.

He's halfway across the library when he realizes he isn't alone. Cora is still there, beside the writing desk, her face in her hands. He is relieved to see she is decent, her nightdress pulled fully over her and her cover wrapped haphazardly around her shoulders.

There is a moment before she hears him that he thinks of fleeing, but then the floor creaks beneath his feet and she turns to him.

The radiant mask of hope fractures when she registers his face and her shoulders slump even further.

It is not the first time he has been an unexpected intruder this night. This time, guilt licks at his belly.

Simon is not sure who he hates more in that moment. The Earl of Grantham or himself.

"I needed a drink." Simon says and the words are somewhat garbled. The ache in his jaw is a steady pain now, something he hadn't noticed until he tried to speak. With a grimace he fingers the sore spot and it's warm to the touch and swollen.

"Don't we all." Cora's pose is defeated.

"Cora-"

Her eyes, studying the swirls of the rug beneath her feet, whip to his. The ice he finds there is startling and he takes a step back.

"Lady Grantham." She says, and the room chills further.

"I..-Lady Grantham."

"You should sleep. I expect you will need to be on the road very early in the morning."

The soft woman she revealed to him on the streets of London is but a memory now, and she stands before him a Countess.

Perhaps wears only in a nightdress and perhaps the smell of sex still lingers in the air, but she is collected and cold and her words are firm.

"You will leave in the morning and you understand that you will never, ever come back."

"I'm sorry."

She chuckles but it is a humorless sound, very unlike the woman he believed to know.

"I was 20 years old when I first set my eyes on London. I was pretty, naive and very rich. I believed I would find a great love."

Her eyes are far away but he has the sense she knows it is him, in particular, she is speaking to. This is no ordinary reminiscence.

"It took exactly one season for me to realize I was something to be obtained. I was a prize - a fresh, low-hanging fruit to be plucked. Used. Discarded. It made me wiser, it made me more suspicious. I suppose it is only fitting that 35 years later I find I've lost that wisdom and suspicion."

She glances at him, finally, and her eyes are still cold.

"I suppose I should thank you for reminding me. Not everyone's intentions are honorable and, not matter how old I get, men will only look to me for what they can take."

"I didn't want to take anything from you." Simon says, and it is a lie. She arches a brow and he can feel himself wilt.

"You almost took this from me." She spreads her arms wide, looking over the room with a smile that was almost warm. "My life. My husband. For what?"

"I love you." He cannot believe he's said it. He cannot believe she is still staring at him coolly, wholly unaffected by his deep admission..

"I was 21 when Robert first told me he loved me and I agreed to marry him. It didn't take me long to realize it was a lie. A lie he wanted to believe, but a lie nonetheless." Her gaze shifts and she softens. "You might want to love me. You might even believe you do. However I do not love you. If you thought it, I am sorry. I am sorry, but you were mistaken."

"I wanted to save you." Had he really fancied himself a white knight, set to save the unhappy princess? Had he truly believed this place to be her ivory tower? He realizes how silly the notion is. Now. "I wanted you to be happy."

"I don't need saving." She considers. "And we create our own happiness. Robert and I. Sometimes we fall short of the ideal. But we are happy."

"Then I'm glad."

Cora laughs at that and the sound is more familiar, more reminiscent of the woman he believed to know. "I don't believe you, but I thank you for the sentiment nonetheless. Sleep well, Mr. Bricker."

She turns and leaves him, her confidence mostly restored. She walks gingerly but her head is high and her shoulders straight.

He hears what she doesn't say. He feels, now more than ever, that he is an interloper in this life of hers.

 _Mr. Bricker, you must leave._

* * *

(3/3)

 _So there you have it. It's all well and good that Robert got to beat the snot out of Bricker. But I thought Cora should have her say. She deserves to fight her own battles, as she is very very capable. I love love love the stoney look on Cora's face as Bricker leaves the house. She isn't wistful or sad - simply resolute. He put something precious of hers in jeopardy and I don't think she's the least bit amused._

 _Anyway - thanks for playing with me!_


End file.
